


Chickens?

by two_nipples_maybe_more



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Canon-Typical Misuse of Exotic Animals as a Plot Device, Case Fic, Fluff and Crack, Growing Old Together, M/M, Old Married Couple, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Supporting Your Partner's Hobbies as a Love Language, Sussex, but only ironically, even more inaccurate depictions of chicken keeping, inaccurate depictions of beekeeing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28600773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/two_nipples_maybe_more/pseuds/two_nipples_maybe_more
Summary: “That thing,” said Watson, “is a chicken.”“Yes, thank you, I was aware of that. What I asked is what is a chicken doing in our living room.”“Good question,” mumbled the old doctor, “it seems rather confused in that regard as well."Watson picks up a new hobby.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 24
Kudos: 67





	Chickens?

**Author's Note:**

> At last! The famous chicken fic is here. This still follows the interpretation where Watson married a second time and only later joined Holmes in Sussex. It's basically me just going "hey you know what would be really funny?" scene after scene, I hope this little thing will help you take your mind off of things in this... utterly unreal moment in history. Happy birthday Sherlock Holmes. Heaven help us all lmao.
> 
> A million thanks to Jan for the grammar check, and to Holly for the final all-clear (and to Hallie, because I stole the name of her super awesome kid OC).

What a beautiful morning, was the thought crossing the mind of the young girl, her old bicycle lamenting the sharp turns she made as she barrelled past fields smelling of earth and wild-born flowers that had just begun to bloom. She rode fast, faster, and the few solitary clouds left in the sky felt more still than the rain kissed road beneath her wheels.

The girl let her foot slide from the pedals to drag it across the ground, and the old metal beast gave one last indignant screech as the world stopped moving and they finally came to a halt at the feet of the hill.

She wiped away the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and hopped off the bike.

It wasn’t as if she couldn’t climb it on wheels as easily as as she could on foot, mind you, but the last time she’d done so the old girl had all but collapsed under her weight, and only thanks to a miracle had she managed to stay on the saddle during their descent and not crack her head open on some rock. She didn’t want to risk it again. The morning was beautiful, there was no denying this, but a walk in the fields tends to be enjoyable only as far as you don’t have to drag the metal carcass of a bike after you for a mile and a half. That she could do well without.

She grabbed the basket and set about finishing her trip on foot.

For as far as she pushed her memory to go (which wasn’t much, considering her own age had only just recently reached a two-digit number), there had always been someone in the cottage. She found it hard to imagine it empty and collecting dust. Despite what she’d been told by her older sister and her mother and pretty much anyone that had, as a result, lived in a time when it was indeed the reality, the thought just didn’t feel right.

Eight years the Londoner had been there, and eight years later it was still what they called him. He never went out past the confines of his field, and when he did, he made for the sea, leaving their small speck of civilization well alone, the only exception being to buy food. He wasn’t what her mother would call a companionable neighbour.

She kicked a pebble to watch it roll down the hill.

The Londoner had always captivated her curiosity. He still did, but anything intimidating in her perception of him had withered away into habitude like a smothered flame. She used to daydream about him, making up ridiculous fantasies about an exiled criminal from some far off country on the other side of the world. The fantasy had grown quite a lot on her until one day the man himself had approached her.

“Excuse me, miss,” he had said, to her great disappointment, with a pristine English accent, “but I noticed you seem to have started a small business in deliveries and I was wondering if I may join your list of clients.”

Jolly good, she had thought then, bitterly, _going around acting all secretive and then ruining people’s fantasies by being nice_ , but she had accepted. Plus, the old man wasn’t stingy with his money. She let the matter go.

Three years went by, her bike started to fall apart, and Mr Holmes — the Londoner’s name, as she came to know — stayed pretty much the same; alone in his little cottage except for the bees, he would receive his “supplies” every two or three mornings when he couldn’t come down to the village (he rarely did) and pay her, sometimes with money, sometimes with honey. He never lived up to her daydreams, obviously, but it was undeniable that the old man had his charm.

She came down from the clouds when she realised she was standing in front of the cottage.

Shaking off the last crumbs of fantasies with a jerk of her head, she pulled herself together and gave a thundering knock at the door.

Her smile froze when she was answered by a stranger.

The man was shorter than Mr Holmes, thicker about the... well, everything, though it didn’t take much, as Mr Holmes was a walking skeleton, sporting a thick moustache that had long lost all its colour and which covered a mouth she could only assume was twisted in an expression of bafflement that mirrored her own.

Readjusting the grip on his cane, the stranger blinked, “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“How may I help you, miss?”

She furrowed her brow at this “I-” She looked down at the basket in her hands. “I reckoned I was the one doing the helping here, sir. I’ve brought the supplies.”

That seemed to strike the stranger dumb. His eyebrows gave a funny jerk, and he raised a hand to pick at his moustache.

“Young lady, I’m afraid I don’t quite follow. Who exactly are you?”

“I’m... listen, is Mr Holmes here? He didn’t move away, right?”

His expression cleared as a lanky figure appeared over his shoulder.

“Ah, splendid! Here you are,” said Mr Holmes. “Watson, this is miss Melanie. Miss Melanie, may I introduce you to my very dear and lifelong friend: Doctor John Watson.”

Doctor Watson looked from his companion and back to her for a moment, then broke out into a kind smile and offered her his hand.

“How do you do, Miss Melanie.”

She took it and gave a firm squeeze, her shoulders squared mirroring his own, before finally handing the basket over.

Mr Holmes dropped some coins into her outstretched palm. “Melanie here is something of a deliveryman for the local population. She is a blessing for weak knees.” He rubbed his hands together with a pensive expression, “About that, dear girl, I wanted to discuss a slight change in our little agreement.”

“Sir?”

“Oh, don’t make that face, I’m not disposing of your services. Au contraire, I wished to ask if bringing more food would be a nuisance to you. Our regular deal might not be enough for two, I’m afraid.”

“Two?” Melanie exclaimed, biting her tongue at once over her lack of manners but nevertheless unable to contain her curiosity. “Is Doctor Watson staying for long?”

The man awkwardly toyed with his moustache, but Mr Holmes simply clasped a hand on his shoulder. He was…smiling. More than he had ever done, as far as she knew; Melanie couldn’t quite remember seeing him this happy before.

“Doctor Watson will always be welcome to stay, for as long as he wishes.”

She couldn’t steal a glance at the doctor's expression, for he nodded and quickly ducked away heading back into the house, but she imagined the sentiment was appreciated.

“In regards to the procuring of the supplies,” murmured Mr Holmes, “we’d planned to take a walk to the village tomorrow for unrelated reasons, but I might as well take advantage of the situation to have a word with your father. I hope everything on the family farm is doing well? Splendid, splendid. I am glad to hear it. Now, as for the delivery...”

He gave her a complicit grin, his eyebrows flickering upwards. “A raise seems only logical to me. Don’t you agree, miss?”

Melanie grinned back.

In the following days, which turned into following weeks and, later still, following months, it seemed that Doctor Watson had accepted Mr Holmes’ hospitality.

Sometimes Melanie would let herself wonder. She didn’t exactly stalk the house day and night, but she never seemed to see any visitors come rapping at their door. They didn’t seem to have wives or children. When she thought about it, neither did they seem to possess any other kind of relative at all.

They did start to come down to the village under Doctor Watson’s request, where Mr Holmes made quite the reputation for himself thanks to his weird trick with looking at the point of your boots and spitting out your morning routine from the moment you woke up to you standing there with your jaw on the floor. Melanie had never understood how the two things correlated, but she knew that the face Mrs Avery had made after a demonstration on her own character had been well worth the temper that accompanied her for days — and made her class hell on earth to attend. She wondered, sometimes, how two men could come to such a peculiar lifestyle, and reached the conclusion that the capital was just one very strange place. After that, she dismissed the matter from her mind altogether.

The number of Londoners in the cottage had doubled, as had the size of her basket of supplies. As had, all things considered, her salary.

She couldn’t really complain now, could she?

* * *

“Good morning, Doctor Watson!”

“Good morning, Miss Melanie. Business as usual, I presume?”

"Yessir. Is Mr Holmes here?”

“Ah, at the moment I’m afraid he could be anywhere. He says he is ‘checking the queens’, but considering the amount of time he spends with those bees I can’t be sure he won’t move out and sleep in the field, one of these days.”

Melanie put her basket down and climbed on one of the chairs in the kitchen.

“Would you like a cup of tea, or are you engaged at the moment?”

“No, sir, this was my last house today,” she crossed her arms over the table and uncrossed them again to smooth out the wrinkles she had formed in the cloth. “Doctor Watson, I had an idea that I wanted to ask you about.”

“Ask away, by all means.”

“Has Mr Holmes every thought of using that trick of his to solve mysteries?”

Watson stared at her for a moment, then smiled. “I’ve been told he has, once or twice in his life,”.

“Then he needs to help us, sir!”

“Good heavens, dear, what happened?”

She raised her hands to the sky, “We lost a cow!”

“Really?” blinked Watson, with the face of a man somewhat relieved at the prospect of not inspecting a dead body right before lunchtime.

“Yes, and our new cow, at that! My mother asked me to tell you about it. We’ve looked for it everywhere, and we’re starting to believe someone stole it. Can Mr Holmes help us?”

Doctor Watson pulled a face as he took a deep breath, considering the situation. He looked back down at her, “We have returned a stolen lost horse years ago, now that I think about it.”

“Then you can find our cow too— wait,” she stopped. “What do you mean with ‘stolen lost horse’. How can a horse be stolen _and_ lost at the same time?”

“It was... oh, it is a long story. Maybe one day I’ll read it to you when you’re older.”

Melanie believed this last remark to raise more questions than answers, but decided not to comment.

“How much should we pay for your services?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How much would Mr Holmes’ services cost? My mother wishes to know.”

“My dear girl, nothing at all, of course. I assure you we are well off financially for the rest of our lives”

Melanie shook her head, “You don’t know my mother, sir. Not setting a price isn’t going to stop her, she will just set one herself and you will have to be the ones to accept it. Besides, I agree with her. It feels a tad like being robbed, the way you and Mr Holmes go about doing business.”

Watson laughed, “As you wish, but I am letting your mother choose our recompense. And it mustn’t be money! Surprises are always more exciting, don’t you think? Now, if only Mr Holmes would come back to human civilization...”

* * *

“Watson? Watson, I’m back! I do apologise, I didn’t mean to be so late, but Mr Richardson called me and it seems that something bothered the hive up west because it swarmed away overnight. I didn’t notice any sign of overcrowding as of late, which is strange. I dare say, the queen cells I found looked perfectly ordinary, there was nothing indicating a swarm! Perhaps some wild animal. I wasted a good hour trying to get it back to safety, Richardson told me to set up some traps last month. Can you believe it, the poor girls went as far as the coast! Thank goodness they didn’t swarm later in the year or I doubt they would have survived for long, but everything is quite alright now.”

Sherlock Holmes hung his jacket up by the door, his netted hat topping the ridiculous attire of the coat stand guarding the cottage’s front door. He rubbed his hands together, “But despite this little misadventure, I have to say I am thrilled. Oh, you should see them, John, they are doing splendidly this year. I have never seen them more alive and buzzing with energy! Young Melanie should expect to bicycle home with a basket heavier than when she came because I suspect this season’s honey will be j-“

Holmes froze as he looked into the living room.

He stared in complete silence.

“John, dearest?”

“Hm?”

“What is that thing doing here?”

“That thing,” said Watson, “is a chicken.”

“Yes, thank you, I was aware of that. What I asked is what is a chicken doing in our living room.”

“Good question,” mumbled the old doctor, “it seems rather confused in that regard as well. I can only tell you that Mrs Walters sends her thanks for the cow.”

“Heavens above, you aren’t going to tell me this is her—“

“Yes.”

Holmes sighed.

“How did she even get it here, couldn’t you have stopped her when she came?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t have the chance,” said Watson, rolling his eyes. “Ten-year-old girls are already quite hard to catch up with at my age, but the task becomes especially Herculean when the child happens to be on a bicycle.”

“Melanie? But the girl wasn’t supposed to come with our supplies until Friday.”

“Which is exactly why the basket had enough space for the chicken.”

Watson gave an awkward pat on the animal’s back. It had an air of aloof indignation with its ruffled feathers and tense squawking. Their old ginger cat, sat on the top of the highest shelf in the room, was giving the intruder a rather nasty looking glare. “Poor thing, that girl has no concept of laws—whether they be of the road or of physics—when she jumps on that bicycle. I find it difficult to hope that it’s been a pleasant journey.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow, then gave it a second thought and pushed it back down. Instead, he barked out a laugh and shook his head.

“Kudos to her for surprising me! I was not expecting this”

“Neither was I. I was rather hoping for a pie, actually.”

“Oh, well; a gift is a gift, after all,” Holmes grinned a devil’s grin in Watson’s direction. “And there aren’t too many steps between a chicken and a pie, anyway. What do you say, dear fellow? That chicken has given me a brilliant idea for dinner.”

The grin died on his lips when he saw Watson’s expression.

“If it’s all the same to you,” he said, stroking with his fingertips the feathers at the base of the animal’s neck, “I would prefer it if we didn’t kill it. I’m not a squeamish man, Holmes, you know that better than anyone, but regardless... I’m sorry. I find that I don’t enjoy all that much the prospect of eating this poor thing.”

“My dear fellow, of course; but what do you suppose we do with it, then? We could sell it to another farmer, if that is what you wish, but there’s no guarantee that a similar fate won’t befall it.”

“No, I—” Watson squirmed in his seat, “I was rather thinking of keeping it.”

“Keeping it!” Holmes exclaimed. “Watson, you have no experience in raising chickens.”

Watson straightened his back and shot Holmes a half-hearted glare. “As a matter of fact, it happens that I do.”

That seemed to rob Holmes of his speech. He blinked, once or twice, surprised despite himself at this small alleyway of Watson’s character that he had somehow never noticed before.

“You do?”

“Yes,” stated Watson, picking the bird up with a grip sure with years of practice. It didn’t even croak when he perched it on his right knee. “My family used to keep chickens when I was a boy, and I still remember how to care for them. In fact, I’ve been considering picking up the old habit since I settled down in my retirement with you.”

Holmes, in the meantime, had snapped out of his astonishment and slid to his side on the sofa. He gave the animal a puzzled glance as he rested his chin on Watson’s shoulder.

“And why is that, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Well,” Watson didn’t meet his eyes, “There isn’t much to do here—for me, that is. I’ve always looked forward to retirement as a time to relax and do nothing at all, but lately I’ve found that the inactivity makes me grow restless. This isn’t to say that I don’t love our new life or waking up besides you every morning, but-“

He bit his lip, looking thoughtful. “You have your bees to tend to, which, once again, I am happy about, but there isn’t... there aren’t many things left for me to do other than writing our past cases and reading. I think it would do me some good, all in all, having something like this to myself. But I can understand if raising chickens doesn’t sound appealing to you.”

Holmes witnessed his faltering, rambling speech in complete silence. Still without uttering a word, he slid his arm through Watson’s and interlocked their fingers.

“You are sure you can handle it?”

“I’m certain of it, although I might require some assistance in building a coop. I fear I’m not the young man I used to be.”

“Oh, nonsense, you’re simply lazy.”

They both startled when the chicken jumped back onto the ground in a flutter of wings, the cat following its example and running outside through the open window.

Holmes and Watson looked at each other and laughed.

* * *

“Get down.”

“Thank you, but I shan’t. I am perfectly capable of doing my part.”

“I said get down! For God’s sake, man, you’ll break your neck.”

The old metal ladder shuddered ominously and Watson decided at once that yes, perhaps he’d rather have both his feet on the ground as soon as possible. He gave up his fruitless struggle with the coop and wobbled down the ladder. He didn’t even need to give a warning when his knee began to buckle, as Holmes had already taken ahold of his arm to support his weight.

Once back to safety, Watson patted him affectionately on the back.

Holmes was looking at his work of the past hour, his head tilted an imperceptible inch to the right. “Pardon my asking, dear, but what exactly were you trying to achieve?”

“It’s- Um. I was...” Watson put his hands on his hips, suddenly self-conscious. “I was attempting to make a window.”

Holmes squinted at the misshapen structure hanging on the side of the coop. His vision was blurry, but even without his glasses, he could tell that Watson’s attempt didn’t have the desired result. He kept his expression blank.

“A bit rustic, if you ask me, but why would you build it that high up? I doubt your hens will be able to look through it even on the highest perch.”

“Oh, they shouldn’t, there are already enough windows to let the air and light in. I’ve planned for them to be free to come and leave as they please, but their coop should allow them at least one space where they can feel safe whenever they wish for some peace and quiet. And,” Watson explained, “I was hoping to make it match the window of the study”.

Holmes looked again and saw that the two openings were, in fact, approximately the same height. He also noticed that Watson had tried to replicate the windowsill of their cottage, with arguable proficiency.

“Oh.”

“I thought it would look nice. Silly, I know.”

“My dear fellow, that is simply wonderful!”

“Oh, spare me the white lies, Holmes,” Watson grimaced, “I know I shouldn’t have bothered.”

“On the contrary, I’m very glad you did. It might not be the result you hoped for, but it does have a unique charm of its own, don’t you think?”

He still didn’t look convinced, so Holmes laced their fingers together, rubbing small circles on the side of his thumb.

“Besides,” he smiled, “I’m glad you’re making this place your own.”

Watson blinked. Holmes rolled his eyes.

“I’ve been living in this cottage for some years now, a time in which I’ve had ample opportunities to leave my own... let us say mark, in the place,” he explained. “The havoc of papers and notes you undoubtedly noticed, the photos and memorabilia from my travels as well. I’ve had my hives, which needed their good number of accommodations in my everyday life, and those smaller peculiarities born out of sheer boredom or on a whim—though I haven’t shot the initials of any monarch into the wall as of yet. What I mean to say is that I’ve made this house my home, and that by leaving your own signature, however sloppy it may be, I’m happy to be able to share this home with you.”

Watson didn’t respond, not at first. He had that expression of his, like he’d just stepped out the front door and someone poured a bucketful of cold water over his head. Then it softened, all the edges in his face disappearing at once, and the lines at the corner of his mouth and the crow’s feet near his eyes deepened around a smile he couldn’t hold back. He looked old. Holmes decided that time couldn’t look better on anyone else.

Watson let go of his hand to cup his face in his palms, and Holmes turned into the caress like a cat.

Raising himself on the tip of his toes, Watson kissed him, revelling in the giddy exhilaration of being allowed to do this whenever, wherever and as many times as they pleased, an exhilaration that he hoped would never fade into the comfortable domesticity of everyday life.

“You are a _bloody rascal,_ ” he responded at last when they broke apart and rested their foreheads against each other’s. The smile on his face was as wide as it was genuine. “So much for pandering. How dare you make me emotional over a chicken coop.”

Holmes laughed and rested his hands over the ones still on his face.

“It is my joy and privilege to make you flush as many times as my heart desires. Come now, no more climbing on ladders for you today, old boy. It would be such a pity for you to break your neck now, of all times.”

* * *

Melanie looked out at the fluttering, clucking flock roaming around their newly acquired home and took a sip from her water-flask. Or, well, she thought, I suppose you could call them a flock. A five chicken flock. Not a big flock, but a flock nonetheless. More of a flick, actually. "O" was too big a vowel for that number.

Doctor Watson came out of the coop. He was empty-handed, but he quickly scolded his defeated expression back to normal. He gave her a curt nod in acknowledgement, then shook his head.

“Still no eggs,” he said, more to himself than in answer to some question.

“Don’t you worry, doctor. It’s only been a few days. I bet they just need more time to get used to the place ‘n’ stuff.”

“If you say so. You have no doubts that they’re receiving enough sunlight?”

“Does the sun shine differently over here than where my house is? Nah, they’ve had plenty of sunlight, alright.”

Melanie’s eyes grew unfocused for a moment, then widened with excitement “Or maybe they feel threatened by something!”

Raising his eyebrows, Doctor Watson went to pick at his moustache. “Threatened? Good Lord, dear girl, what makes you think that?”

“Well, it’s not as if they’re old or sick, of course. You wouldn’t get such chickens from us, doctor, no sir! I swear it on my mum’s name,” she puffed out her chest, her eyes twinkling. “Your coop looks all right and properly insulated. It must be it: there’s a predator lurking in the darkness.”

“I can’t shake the feeling that you’re jumping to conclusions, but as you say,” Doctor Watson conceded, now smiling. “Although I haven’t let them roam freely yet, and none have gone missing. Besides, there aren’t any signs of entry anywhere near the fence, nor any mysterious footprints.”

“I see your point, but the cause might still be related to stress. Do they seem to get along well?”

“As far as I know there have been no blood feuds, but even if there had,” he reasoned, “I don’t understand why they would _all_ stop laying eggs.”

“Then it has to be a predator,” Melanie insisted. “Could be a fox or a badger. Or maybe an opossum, or a skunk!”

“I’m quite sure those are American.”

“Or a tiger!”

Watson laughed, “Nonsense, you’ll find no tigers in England. I’ve had to confront a tiger before, and I can assure you they will do anything to keep away from humans if they have the chance. And it still doesn’t explain the lack of footprints.”

“A very sly tiger, then. And don’t be so quick! Assuming there are no tigers with Doctor Walters just down the road is madness. He’s got all kinds of exotic animals over there. He could be hiding a dozen tigers in his basement. I don’t trust him one bit.”

“My dear girl, where does this outburst come from? Why ever shouldn’t you trust him?” Watson asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

Melanie, now worried that she had spoken out of place, shuffled her feet “Well, I shouldn’t say, but...” she drawled, “I think, sir, that there should be tests for that, sir. They should put a number of rules telling you just how many dangerous animals you can keep if you forget the hound’s cage open too many times in a week, sir. You can’t have escaped hounds lurking around and scaring people everywhere. It’s a matter of safety, that’s all.”

“Melanie,” Watson said, putting a hand on her shoulder “have you, by chance, had a close encounter with one of Doctor Walters’ dogs?”

Melanie visibly shuddered.

“Not me. But my sister has. She was shaking so much she couldn’t speak a single word all day. She told me it was so big it could have ripped my bike to pieces. She says that beastly thing is the reason her hair’s going all grey already.”

Doctor Watson smiled but chose not to comment, possibly feeling that the topic was sensitive to the young girl. Instead, he drew her attention to one hen who had wandered up to them while hunting for bugs, and Melanie picked it up, holding it close to her chest. The bird didn’t so much as flap, recognising the touch of her former owner. She let her shoulders drop.

“I will keep your advice in mind, although I still doubt a tiger could hide from us for so long. Let us hope this situation will resolve itself, or else we can ask Holmes for help,” Watson reassured her. “This wouldn’t be the first time we tried to catch a criminal without footprints. A locked coop mystery... well I never! Won’t you come inside for a while? I’ve just now remembered: he wanted to ask your advice on those lesser walked paths to the coast down West."

Melanie agreed, the prospect of a chat with Mr Holmes and the unspoken promise of biscuits too appealing to turn down. They began to walk back to the cottage together.

“Wait a second,“ she said, stopping dead in her tracks, “ _did you just say you confronted a tiger?_ ”

* * *

"Hullo there," Holmes squinted from behind the net covering his face. "May I help you?"

The chicken didn't seem to pay the tall human with his weird hat any mind. Apparently at peace with its existence, it advanced step by step through the field, rasping and pecking the ground as it walked. It raised its head up only once to peer at him with an uninterested eye, then its attention was once again stolen by some bug in the grass.

The hen cooed, and Holmes hummed in agreement.

"I see. Carry on, then, please don't let me intrude on your exploration."

Turning back around, Holmes gently grabbed one of the hive's frames and lifted it up to his face.

To the untrained ear, there is very little order in the buzzing of a beehive. Your average Londoner, having no practical knowledge of bees save those solitary encounters in parks every now and then, will likely interpret it, regardless of context, as a signal of aggressiveness. A buzzing bee is an angry bee, therefore not to _bee_ trifled with. But if said Londoner had one day decided to abandon his career in criminology and move to the country, spending the better part of a decade studying these fascinating creatures, he would have learned that in the buzzing of a bee can also lay a simple "Hello!" or "There's food over there!" and much more, and how to distinguish these different meanings.

So when Holmes felt the hive hiss as he reached for another frame, he didn't give it much thought, and simply smoked the girls crawling on top to calm them down and get a safer grip.

They did catch his attention, after he'd thoroughly inspected the frame and begun to slide it back into place, when the defensive buzz roared again.

"Easy does it," he murmured, "this will be over soon", when he cast a glance to his side.

The chicken was right by his feet, peering curiously at the hive. Its clucking ceased as a group of guard bees flew towards it, a tone of warning in their buzz. The bird stared.

Then it caught one in mid air and ate it.

"I beg your pardon!" Holmes exclaimed, indignated. "What the deuce do you think you're doing?"

The chicken ignored him. Instead, it looked with renewed interest at the box of flying humbugs in front of it.

Trying to keep the beast away, he kicked his leg out to the side, managing to make it flap back a foot or two, but immediately gave up that plan when his joints made their disapproval very clear. Being up to his elbows in a beehive, he realized, was not the best position to find oneself in while fighting a chicken.

"So, this is how it is," he glared again at the chicken as it approached the hive once more. "You come to my house, you steal my lover, and now you eat my bees. Perhaps you'd like to have my keys as well, so you might make yourself at home? Teapot's in the bottom drawer."

The chicken turned to him and cooed. Holmes sighed.

As it looked back towards the hive, he prepared to scare it away once more; but the chicken paused, had a change of heart, and decided to scavenge for worms in the ground instead.

"There! I'm glad we're feeling more reasonable."

Finally, he slid the last frame back into place, unbothered by any more feathered thieves, closed the hive, and stood back with his hands on his hips to admire a job well done.

When he looked for the chicken again, he could only spot a tiny dot in the distance, disappearing in the direction of the hen house.

Despite himself, Holmes chuckled.

* * *

From the window left ajar, a faint, fresh breeze tangled itself into the curtains to then stumble, uninvited, into the still silent bedroom. The first rays of dawn peeking through the now broken spell of a good night’s sleep painted the room, the floor and the bed in light with careless brushstrokes.

Holmes shifted and burrowed deeper into the covers, hoping to steal another moment of rest. Despite the early hour, Morpheus had other plans, and he quickly abandoned the struggle.

He stretched his arms above his head, flinching at the popping sounds in his joints, when he noticed something smooth brush against the back of his fingers.

He brought the small object up to eye level and squinted at the blurry orb.

“Watson?” he said, after a moment.

The unconscious lump at his side didn’t give any sign of having heard him, or any of being alive at all. Putting a hand on his arm, Holmes raised his voice.

“John.” he called, shaking him gently, and Watson’s breath hitched. Turning over so they could face each other, he huffed, rubbed at his eyes and gave the room a tired glance.

His hair was mussed and stubbornly sticking out to the side, and his cheeks were in dire need of a shave. Holmes ignored the fond warmth in his chest at the sight. “Good morning,” he said.

He was answered by a low groan.

“My word, aren’t you a ray of sunshine today.”

“Sherlock, for Heaven’s sake, have you any idea what time it is?”

“Judging by the length of that shadow to your right, I should say barely past five.”

Watson finally cracked one eye open to peer at him, his gaze dark and unfocused under lids heavy with sleep.

“I sincerely hope you have a reason for bothering me at such an ungodly hour.”

“Why, of course,” Holmes held up the piece of evidence. “Would you mind telling me who is responsible for this?”

For a second or two, it looked as if Watson were waging a war against his own facial features to keep them impassive, but his hand betrayed him when it rose and anxiously patted his moustache back into order, then he shrugged.

“No idea. My guess is on Victoria.”

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

“Victoria?” he asked.

“That is what I said.”

“You’re blaming an egg on my cat.”

The animal, feeling itself called into question, yowled its disapproval and kneaded Watson’s breast. When it caught its claws into his nightshirt, Watson disentangled them from the cloth and grabbed its head as it tried to playfully bite his fingers.

“One devil of a cat you have there, if you ask me.”

“John.”

Watson sighed and pushed himself up to a half-sitting position, leaning his back against the bed frame. Holmes did the same, scratching the cat behind its ears.

“Darling,” Holmes said softly, taking his hand “I’m glad you’re enjoying your new hobby, and I won’t complain if you want to let the hens into the house now and then, but I must draw the line at bringing them into our bedroom.”

Watson squeezed his fingers between his and smiled, “I know, dear, I apologise. Back when I was a boy I’d get so awfully attached, I cared for them like pets. I always hoped I could bring them inside one day, but I should have asked first.”

“I fear,” Holmes mused, rolling onto his belly and pillowing his arms under his head, “that young Melanie’s theory might have some truth to it. That is the first egg your chickens have laid since you bought them, isn’t that right?”

“Perhaps, or they’ve finally gotten used to the change.”

Holmes smiled at Watson’s distracted tone as he felt his companion shift and brush his lips against the soft back of his neck. Then he huffed and plopped down onto the bed, an arm thrown across Holmes’ body and his chin digging into his shoulder.

Holmes counted the golden freckles dusting his nose.

“John?”

“Hush now, it’s five in the morning and I am trying to sleep.”

Holmes chuckled under his breath, but the sound quickly turned into a full, though silent, laugh. Watson opened his eyes one last time to glare at him.

“What are you laughing about, now?”

“Nothing, oh nothing, my dearest. I was thinking,” Holmes giggled to himself and kissed his cheek. “This is not quite what I had meant with ‘ _breakfast in bed_ ’”.

* * *

It was a beautiful summer night, somewhere down in Sussex. The torturing humidity of the previous year didn’t seem to visit the green hills surrounding their little cottage, and the ground was pleasantly warm after a full day of unbroken sunshine. All throughout the fields, the insect world thrummed with life, their buzzing choir intonating a song as old as the land they inhabited, perhaps older, and the soft beating of their wings filled the air. In the distance, the sea lay silent.

But in a time when any man or woman with some sense left into them would be fast asleep with their mind set on tomorrow, the cottage was curiously restless. Before the open front door stood the figure of a man. The light coming from the kitchen behind him flowed out into the darkness, haloing his slippered silhouette. He squinted at the night and huffed.

“Are you quite done?” he called out into the black. He received no answer.

“Dear God, John, it is two in the morning. This is ridiculous and you know it.”

“If it is so ridiculous, you’re welcome to get inside. I’m staying here.” the other man finally called back.

Holmes groaned. “You’re letting this matter go to your head,” he plodded forward in the direction of Watson’s voice, “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Your hens are safe and there’s no beast stalking the night terrorizing them. Now will you please come to bed?”

“How curious, then, that they should lay eggs once they had spent a single night inside, but as soon as I let them out again, they stop. It is either an animal or a thief. No, whatever is going on it is ending tonight, and I shall see to it myself!”

Sitting on a stool against the entrance of the coop was the good doctor, the tilt of his shoulders carrying a proud sense of duty as he guarded his feathered protégées. He held his old reinforced cane before him, his hands joint and resting at the handle. Knowing it to be unlikely for reason to reach him once his protective instincts have been raised, Holmes rubbed at his eyes and lowered himself to sit at Watson’s feet. He rested his cheek against his knee and smiled as Watson harrumphed.

He stoically refused to respond.

Watson gave in, “Old boy, that can’t be good for your joints.”

Holmes made an inquisitive noise, “I can’t see how, doctor. It’s quite the wonderful night. Besides, if you feel fit to tackle this beast alone, I can’t see why it shouldn’t be the same for me.”

Watson hesitated for a second, a lifelong habit of stating the obvious still unbroken, before resting his hand in the nest of half-greyed hair.

"I understand that it might seem like a trifle," he continued, "but it will put my mind at ease if I can ascertain the lack of danger myself."

"That is alright with me, but I still have every intention of joining you. It is, and I say this in all honesty, a splendid evening." Holmes yawned, "I only wish half the stake outs in our career had been this pleasant."

Watson chuckled quietly to himself, "Do you remember that case in Paris?"

"Ah yes, the sewers. Wet, dirty, absolutely disgusting odor. How could I forget."

"Your prose puts Monsieur Hugo to shame, my dear."

Holmes snorted and reached for a cigarette in his nightgown pocket. For a few seconds, the small fire from the match pooled light in the cupping of his hands, illuminating his profile and accentuating his sharp features, his sunken cheeks casting deep shadows around the lines of his mouth. He raised a questioning eyebrow in Watson's direction, but the doctor shook his head. They both settled back to listen to the night.

"Thank you," Watson broke the silence once again, "for the letter. I’ve never properly expressed my gratitude. It was awfully selfless of you to offer so much."

"I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't considered your presence here quite invaluable to my happiness."

"Nevertheless, that doesn't negate the magnitude of your proposal.” Watson brushed a soft silvery strand from Holmes’ forehead, “My dear, you've built a life here, a new life. The people down by the village know hardly anything of our—of your career. It is everything you’ve always wanted out of retirement. To welcome me after so long, after Jean…”

He felt Holmes tense against his leg.

“I shouldn’t have left again, even now I can’t phantom how I could still cling to such an _idealised_ -”

“Watson.”

“No, it is true. I’ve hurt us both deeply and I will never be sorry enough for it—”

“Watson, snake!”

With a start, both men scrambled to their feet. From the depth of the coop, an enormous serpent moved, its twisting body as silent as smoke and its sleek scales glimmering whenever they caught the moonlight. The thin tongue flicked out from time to time, tasting the air.

Holmes froze, muttering an oath and Watson stepped instinctively between them.

"Well," he whispered as Holmes took hold of his arm, "I believe we've found our culprit. Young Melanie will be proud to know her theory was correct."

The creature moved its head and Holmes's grip turned to iron.

“Watson, if you would kindly hand me your walking stick."

“You’re not beating a snake to death with my cane!”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” hissed Holmes, “I had assumed it would factor into your plan, but it seemed you were just in the mood to _accessorise_ , this evening.”

Holmes let go of his arm and turned towards the cottage.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m getting the rifle.”

“When the Devil did you get a rifle!”

“When I moved to a cottage in the middle of nowhere, _alone_ , right about the time a number of convicted felons began to return to civilization from the gaols I put them in!”

It was Watson this time who caught him by the arm.

“You are doing no such thing. Do you wish to terrorise everyone down at the village? Besides, something doesn’t fit here—”

"On the contrary," said Holmes, "this explains everything. You should be grateful that it hasn’t killed one of your hens yet. It must have been bothering my hives as well."

And despite the adrenaline fueled haze that screamed at him to protect a pair of particularly scrawny ankles from a particularly venomous pair of fangs, Watson felt a thin beam of reason cut through the fog.

"Do snakes usually prey on beehives?"

"Yes! No—I don't know, but I certainly would not put it past them, either way." Holmes snapped.

The doctor was completely lucid now. Few things are capable of scaring Sherlock Holmes to irrationality, snakes being one of them; but the spell of fear had been broken, and Watson rifled through his memories. Holmes tugged at his arm.

Suddenly he let go.

Holmes looked at him, suspicion winning its battle against sheer terror, “What?”

“I don’t think we have any reason to be afraid,” Watson laughed, a shade testily.

“And why would that be?”

Watson reached down to squeeze his fingers, “Do you remember that collection of research upon the fauna of the colonies gathering dust in your attic?”

“No.”

“Well, I do,” Watson was smiling madly, “I need you to go inside, find the keys to my automobile, and drive to the village.”

“Are you suggesting that I leave you here, alone?” Holmes interrupted him. “Are you certain that you are in no danger?”

Watson licked his lips, “Highly positive.”

Holmes regarded him as if he were mad, passed a hand over his brow and nodded at him to continue.

“I need you to knock on Doctor Walters’ door and refuse to leave unless he agrees to come with you. Drag him out of his bed if you have to. Tell him that one of his African snakes has escaped.”

Some time later that night, after a few journeys back and forth filled with endless apologies and, at one point, a surprisingly placid snake in the comfortable though temporary confines of a carton box, Sherlock Holmes found himself once again inside his cottage, the fire rumbling in the grate warming his frozen bones, and a mighty headache preparing to lay siege to his frontal lobe.

 _Rest has no use to me when the brain has work_ , chimed a younger voice in the back of his fatigued mind. He snorted. What a load of bollocks.

The door to the living room opened. There was the tapping of a cane, then another weight landed beside him on the sofa, followed by the frantic rustling of turned pages.

“There!” Watson exclaimed, and Holmes finally lifted an eyelid.

“ _Dasypeltis fasciata_ ,” he mumbled, “Commonly found in central and west Africa but kept in captivity as an exotic pet as well. Our mystery is solved.”

“I was reading this tome some months ago out of boredom. Their primary defence is mimicry. I had mistaken it for a viper too, at first, but apparently they are devoid of teeth and entirely harmless, and that is because--”

Watson stabbed the page with his finger in triumph.

“They are strict ovivores,” Holmes read. He snorted and closed his eyes once more, “My word, it must have been a feast for him.”

“ _Her_ ,” the doctor corrected him, “Only the females grow to that size, and even then, Doctor Walters’ was an exceptionally enormous specimen. They hunt at night so as to avoid the birds, which, in turn, prey on them. They are also very fond of climbing. I suspect we will find a surprising pile of shells inside the higher sections of the coop’s walls, tomorrow.”

“ _You_ will, my dear fellow. I intend to be dead to the world until lunchtime, if I have any say in the matter.”

Watson laughed softly. He set the book aside, and pushed Holmes down by his shoulders until his head was in his lap. Carding his fingers through the soft, silvery hair, he leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Do you wish to go to bed immediately?”

Holmes hummed, content, and leaned into the touch.

“No,” he responded after some consideration, “No, this is more than agreeable for now.”

* * *

The thing about working as a delivery man, thought Melanie, wrenching the brakes to stop her bicycle from careening off a hill, is that the harder you work and the faster you, well, deliver, the less people see you as a delivery _person_ and the more they see you as a delivery _maker._

It’s not malicious, especially not at first. At first they see you dash away and think: Oh look at young Melanie go, always so busy and hardworking, I wanted to offer her a bite but she had to leave to reach Mr Smith’s house on time; which becomes: Maybe I should just offer her water so I don’t slow her down, maybe Mr Smith is waiting; which, in the end, becomes: I shouldn’t engage her too long or Mr Smith’s package will arrive late.

Mr Smith’s package! As if it drove all the way there on its own. What rubbish. If Mr Smith wanted his package so badly, he could very well meet her halfway.

She should get her hands on one of those unions her pa' was going on about the other day. They were supposed to deal with this kind of stuff, anyway. Melanie did not know where one gets a union, but if worse came to worst, she supposed she could wait until her mother took her to town again and ask one of the miners very nicely.

The ridiculous part was that it was a Thursday too. She couldn’t stand Thursdays; they usually got on her nerves by noon.

She took one last, sharp turn towards the farm, and then an even sharper halt.

“Huh,” she said, inspecting the black automobile resting in their front garden, “that was not here before.”

She dismounted her old steed and left her by the side of the house. Toeing off her shoes and hanging her cycling jacket by the door, she peeked through the entrance to the living room.

“Ah, Miss Melanie, good morning to you.”

“Mr Holmes!” she exclaimed, “And Doctor Watson, too, what are you doing here?”

Her mother stopped herself from fussing with the table cloth by flicking her forehead.

“I am terribly sorry, gentlemen. I don’t know what else to do for her attitude.”

Mr Holmes laughed, “No offence taken, madam. I used to be just as blunt when I was her age.”

“Is that cake?” Melanie asked, and her mother sighed.

“Dundee cake. It is also very fresh,” answered Doctor Watson, “and _homemade_ as well.”

The little cogs inside Melanie’s brain spun like bicycle wheels, “The eggs!”

“ _Brava!_ ” Mr Holmes cheered.

“I can’t believe I lost the show.”

“Not to worry, Watson here will tell you everything. We set to work early in the morning so as to bring the cake over before lunch. We hope it will be to your liking.”

“But… why?” asked Melanie, “I mean, I’m coming over tomorrow, as usual, there was no need to drive all the way here today.”

Her mother gently placed a hand on her head “ _An act of kindness is the bearer to a thousand more_ , as your father likes to say.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Mr Holmes chuckled; he looked as if he hadn’t slept at all that night, but when he glanced back at the doctor, his eyes shone like sea-glass under the sun. “We wanted to bring some supplies, that is all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Was the narrative voice all over the place? Yes. Was this ridiculously silly? Yes. But did I have a blast writing this? Absoluely.  
> I hope you enjoyed, as always you can find me on tumblr at two-nipples-maybe-more.


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